


Slick Red, Dried Rust

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Based on a song, Gen, War AU, when will i stop writing things based on songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Unwilling warriors, fighting for a lost cause, fighting for a crown they do not believe in, fighting for their freedom through death.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> Based on [My Confession by KAMELOT](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSylbQEHhVo)

He stands on the outskirts of the city, listening to the hymns below, mingled with the bellows of drunk soldiers. He turns his back on them, facing the moon, his blade hanging at his waist.

It is foolhardy, but he unbuckles the belt, allows his blade and scabbard to fall. He takes two steps forward and sinks to his knees, head thrown back to regard the moon and her fullness, mouth open in a silent scream.

_Huntress, give me strength and a sign._

_I do not wish to fight any longer._

But she remains silent, her pale skin taunting, white and unmarred by the stain that covers his blade.

He crumples into himself, puppet strings no longer holding him up, and weeps.

He falls into sleep where he lies, and his dreams are plagued with the clash of blades, and the splatters of flying blood.

\-----

He rises to his feet, inhaling the crisp morning mist.

Today. Today will be the day they face the last of their adversaries, and then he will be free. No longer bound to the throne by blade and blood, no longer obligated to serve for a cause so lost that half the nation has died for it.

Today he faces the champion of the opposing nation, and takes his head as a trophy.

\-----

He wasn’t always a warrior.

He was a scholar, hands soft and supple, made for holding quill and scroll. They were nice hands, big hands, long and lean fingers, perfect for pointing out taxation miscalculations and reading words of the law.

But he was conscripted because his father owed a debt, and he learnt from the captain of the guard how to wield a sword, how to strike an enemy where it would hurt him most.

He thought he would die, the day they put him on the battlefield, a mere horse-length from the captain. And then the horn was sounded, the battle began, and he found his blade in the stomach of a foot soldier.

It was like all he had been raised for fell away in that moment, as he looked into the fading eyes of the man he had killed.

Him. He killed a man.

He was a murderer.

But as he pulled his blade free, another took that soldier’s place, and steel came slashing down, detaching head from body, the thrill of battle singing in his veins, lending him undue strength.

He felt alive, he felt reborn. He felt like he could take on the whole army on his own.

The remaining soldiers of that day always said that they didn’t know who he was, didn’t know where he came from.

 _An angel,_ they said. _The exactor of justice. The Huntress has blessed him, and he cuts through the enemies on tawny wings, a monster draped in dirt and sand._

He stopped trying to protest after the third song sung in his honour, and accepted his fate as their champion.

But though his blade sang in the heat of battle, his soul cried every night for the souls he cut down, for the families who had lost a father or brother or husband.

\-----

The battlefield lies before him, the remainder of the army at his back. The desert breeze brings to him the smell of rot and blood, and he inhales, steeling himself and reminding his hands not to shake.

One last mission. One last call. One last body.

He has prayed for peace too many times, so many times that it is now a mantra and no longer a prayer, and he thinks that this may finally, _finally_ be the fight to end it all.

_Lady of the Hearth, I beg for forgiveness. Take away this stained conscience, and give me a spirit new._

There is the tickle of a finger drawn down his cheek, brushing along the stubble grown through their endless march.

**You do not have the right to beg my forgiveness yet, little one. Come home, and I will greet you with the warmth of flame.**

He closes his eyes and whispers another prayer – of apology, this time, and instead turns his attention to the monster in his blood.

_Lord of War, do what you will with me._

A thrill goes over his skin, and his heart pumps faster.

**That’s the spirit, my boy.**

\-----

The battlefield is a whirr, a spinning storm. Two champions, spurred on by their respective gods and goddesses, uplifted by the song of their people, supported by the dwindling numbers of their dying armies.

They turn and they clash, blade to blade, never slipping, never giving in, digging in to make a cut, spinning out to avoid a slash. They are evenly matched, and though the soldiers and horses die around them, they continue their deadly dance over bodies, refusing to admit defeat.

It is exhaustion that stills their blades, one at his throat, one at his heart. They regard each other, panting heavily, the war rage fading from their tired pupils.

He can see now, that his adversary is barely older than him, a face marred with dirt and blood, gaunt with the lack of rations.

He can see now, that his opponent is a moonlight child, sword grip like that of grasping a pen, but his eyes are hard and unwavering, ringed with the blessing of a warrior.

“I will lower my sword if you do.”

They are both shocked by his words, in a voice so dry and rasping, they wonder how long their fight has gone on. His rival only tightens his grip, and licks his lips. The shine of rusty red on his lip makes him think of champions and warriors, and how he too, had been forced into war when all he wanted was peace.

“Who is to say you will not kill me immediately?”

He is right to be sceptical, and he blinks his acknowledgement. Ah, but he is so tired.

“Do you not want to go home?” He asks instead. He can feel his sword wavering, the muscles in his arm worked beyond the point of mere exhaustion. “My goddess awaits my return.”

The other’s eyes widen. “You are a seer.”

“And you are a scholar.”

“No,” and his adversary has on a smile so bitter, so filled with loathing and resentment, he could make a ripe field rot. “I am a warrior, and it is my pride and my honour to extinguish you.”

The sword comes at him again, but he spins, dropping his own that he might grab the other’s arm and twist the weapon from it.

He holds him, his back to his front, breathing heavily into dust-caked hair. “You are a scholar,” he whispers, and he feels the truth in those words, feels it resonate in his bones. “Your war god has abandoned you, as mine has abandoned me.”

He feels his opponent slump, and yells as a foot crashes down on his own.

He rolls away, picks up a sword, blocking the blow just in time.

“The Huntress,” his adversary snarls, “Has never been by my side. It is I, and only I, who fights this battle, and I suffer for the gains of the throne.”

“Then you understand me!” He pushes back, sends him tumbling, and then they are at a stalemate again, sword to throat and heart.

“You understand me,” he says, more quietly, eyes hooded. “For I too, serve by the blade, though I would rather take a moonlit night.”

“A romantic,” the other sneers. “But it will do you no good. I will take your heart back to my king, and he will free me.”

“If I take _your_ head back to _my_ king, he will free _me._ ” He cocks his head. “Seems like we want the same thing.”

“I will never agree with the likes of you,” he spits, but he only smiles.

“Won’t you?”

\-----

He sits in a clearing, waterfall within sight, the roaring blocking out all else. His hard work is splayed around him, sheets upon sheets of freshly pressed paper, and he is mixing ink for his pot.

He corks the bottle and sets it aside, gathering his sheets to place in a chest.

He murmurs a prayer to the god of the earth, a thanksgiving for what he was allowed to take, and what he has made from it.

He takes a quick dip in the pool of the waterfall, washing away his grime, cleansing himself of his labour.

He catches sight of his reflection before he dons his robe, and turns away with a tight smile.

He cinches the neckline tight, hiding his scar from the world.

\-----

He sits in the temple, placing offerings in the brazier, the smell that rises up pleasing to him, but most of all, pleasing to his goddess.

**Thank you, child.**

_My pleasure, my Lady._

He turns to the papers on the altar, notes the quality and the make of them. He smiles to himself, and fingers the fabric above his heart.

He does not press down, because the scar is deep, and he does not want to wound himself further.

\-----

There is a tense silence as their eyes meet, as they eye each other across the clearing. They take a step forward, and another, until they are face to face, and bend slowly, leaving their offering between them.

He tilts his head, exposing his scar. “I see you.”

He touches his heart lightly, his hand falling to his side. “I see you.”

They circle each other till they reach the other’s gift, crouching and reaching into the bags, eyes finally leaving their fated opponent.

He smiles at the contents, and sees the other doing the same.

They stand in tandem, clutching the bags to their chests, circling again until their backs are against their original route.

They breathe slowly, regarding each other, heads cocked, eyes analysing.

He speaks first, with a toss of his faded copper hair. “Till next month.”

His rival – enemy, soulmate, fated counterpart, does it really matter? – inclines his head just so, quietly mocking. “Till next month.”

They turn and exit, leaving the same way they came, the summer breeze ruffling through their hair.

In the clearing, silver and copper strands linger among the blades of grass, a promise and a pact, formed long ago in the haze of battle rage, tempered only by the hope of living, and the foreshadow of what was to be forgiveness and forgetfulness.


End file.
